Just at that moment, the door burst open and she barged in with a tray. Once she’d unloaded the tea things, he slipped the notes surreptitiously into her hand; his fingers tingling from the shock of meeting hers. ‘I realize I’m keeping you up late, so here’s a little something for your trouble.’
‘Gosh, thanks! Fantastic! And it isn’t any trouble – honest.’
The cash had softened her up, but who was he to object? He knew all too well how money made the difference between battling on in life, or giving up.
‘Great cup of tea,’ he enthused, although the brew was weak and pallid; a single teabag floating in the chipped brown earthenware pot.
‘Mum says I can’t make tea to save my life. Normally, she never lets me near the kitchen.’
A definite advance. Information offered in a congenial tone of voice. ‘Are any other guests staying at the moment?’ he asked, keen to take advantage of the truce.
She shook her head. ‘Mum’s been ill – not just the stomach thing, but – you know – other problems …’ The sentence petered out.
Poor kid, he thought. If business was so bad, the mother might be forced to sell up; even land in the bankruptcy court. The sense of insecurity, the constant dread of ending up with nothing – they were his, as well.
‘Must dash, or I’ll burn your egg.’
He’d gladly risk a burnt egg – indeed, a completely charred and ruined breakfast – for the privilege of keeping her in view. But she had already disappeared, although her pale, slender legs continued jouncing in his mind. He knew those legs – the silky feel of the skin; the two special, star-shaped freckles on the inside of the left (and luscious) thigh.
Within minutes, he heard steps approaching, and racked his brains for some wise or witty overture. Somehow, he must charm her, gain her interest, prove he could be trusted. But, as he opened his mouth to speak, he saw not Stacey, but a young gangling man slouch into the room.
‘Sorry,’ the stranger muttered, wiping his hands on his dirty denim jeans. ‘Didn’t know anyone was here.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Derek, speaking to empty air. The youth had gone as swiftly as he’d come.
He spooned more sugar into his tea, to add a bit of flavour, although aware that every spoonful increased the calorie-count. When he’d first met Gemma, he’d been as slim as a swordstick. Now, he was developing the male equivalent of love-handles – something of a misnomer, since he’d made love to no one else in all those barren years; years he called his exile, in the sense of lifelong banishment from the one woman in the world who had been his hope and haven.
He jumped as Stacey banged back in. ‘D’you want your egg soft or hard?’
Would he be hard, he wondered, if he were back in bed with Gemma? The very thought sent a flutter through his groin.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Sorry – yes. Hard! By the way, a guy popped in just now. Was it your brother, by any chance?’
‘No!’ She gave a nervous giggle. ‘I’m an only child, worse luck! That was Steve, our handyman.’
‘He’s working late.’
‘Yeah, we had a … problem. But he’s fixed it now, so he’ll be leaving in a jiff. Listen, I’ve done you some fried bread.’
‘Wonderful! It’s one of my little weaknesses – fried bread. D’you find you have certain things you just can’t do without?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘A decent night’s sleep.’
‘OK, don’t rub it in. Look, the minute you bring me my breakfast, I’ll gobble it down double-quick.’
‘Don’t worry – only kidding! Anyway, the sausage isn’t done yet. I had to get them out of the freezer, and they’re in this huge great catering pack. It took me ages to hack one off from the rest. In fact, I almost lost a finger!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Sixth apology. They must somehow move from sausages and ‘sorrys’ to something more profound. ‘Do call me Derek,’ he urged, hoping to strike a more intimate note. ‘And do you mind if I call you Stacey?’
‘Not bothered.’ She gave a dismissive shrug, although at least she made no move to go. ‘So what line of work are you in?’
I’m a ‘champion’, he all but said, a ‘hero’. Those were the terms bandied about at sales conferences, in an attempt to flatter conference-members that they were venturing out to win new lands, like the pioneers who had conquered the Wild West. In point of fact, most salesmen were despised, and with some real cause, he felt. There was something rather creepy about employing all the social graces not for genuine friendship but just to make a profit.
‘Well,’ he replied, ‘you’ll laugh at this, in light of what you said about your sleep, but I work for a company that manufactures Sleep-Sound beds. They’re a totally new concept in sleep-health. Each bed has a memory-foam mattress that reduces pressure on the joints, and our double-deluxe model is electrically adjustable and comes complete with a built-in massage function. Or, if you upgrade to our top-of-the-range bed, you’ll get an integral stereo system that plays hypnotic “sleep-well” CDs and—’
God, he thought, he was lapsing into sales patter, purely from force of habit. And, far from seeming impressed, she looked a shade alarmed. Perhaps it wasn’t very tactful to have broached the subject of beds so early in their acquaintance. And ‘massage’ sounded worse, with its sleazy connotations.
‘I bet they’re pricey,’ was all she said.
‘Yes, I’m afraid even our standard single would set you back six hundred, and our most expensive king-size costs a cool three grand.’
‘So who buys them, then? Rock stars?’
Who indeed? He could spend hours with potential customers, demonstrating every last detail of the beds, only to be told, ‘We’ll think about it’, or even have the door slammed in his face. Or they might ask him to return tomorrow, when he’d driven miles for today’s appointment. Or totally forget that he was coming, and go out on a shopping trip, like Mrs Watts this morning, who had eventually returned, loaded down with packages, pretending he had got the time wrong, although he’d phoned her only yesterday, to confirm. But, whatever the provocation, he must never lose his cool, but be unfailingly polite, upbeat and positive. His time didn’t matter, only theirs. Indeed, he hardly even existed as a person. He was just a smile, a spiel.
‘OK, I’ll get your nosh now.’ The girl had clearly lost all interest in the buyers, or non-buyers, of his beds.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘And bring a second cup, so you can join me for a cup of tea.’ He was probably being way too forward, but it was all he could do not to clamp his body on to hers and keep it there by force. He should have done that with Gemma, he realized now, with hindsight. The love of his life, lost to some phoney artist – and one called Tristram, for God’s sake. What chance had a lowly Derek Baines against a Tristram Trelawny? The slimy ponce had not only stolen Gemma, but used her as a life-model, as if she were a slapper who stripped off for anyone? He should have killed his rival in cold blood, instead of slinking away to lick his wounds in private. Yet he was sick and tired of ‘might-have-beens’ – his companions now for close on thirty years.
When Stacey returned with his food, he pulled out the chair beside him and patted it invitingly. But she ignored the gesture and remained standing where she was. If only he was skilled at conversation and could enthral her with some exotic traveller’s tale, or launch into a discussion about the Meaning of Life or the Riddle of the Sphinx. But all he could manage was sales-talk, and he would hardly sweep her off her feet with an account of ‘Sleep-Sound’s flame-retardant mattress-covers, or their ‘no-quibble’ five-year guarantee.
‘Eat up! It’s getting cold.’
What she really meant was that he was keeping her from sleep. He would gladly whisk her to her bedroom, cuddle up beside her, demonstrate his skills in a different, wordless way. Instead, he cut slowly into the rubbery fried egg. It was so small, a wren must have laid it; possibly a sparrow. The frilled edges of the white were overlaid with g
lobules of fat and flecked with black specks from the sausage, itself afloat in a greasy pool of beans. Who cared? It was enough that she was here, so that he could flash back thirty years and imagine he and Gemma were breakfasting together after a night of passionate love.
‘So where d’you live?’ she asked, perhaps finding the silence oppressive – as indeed he did himself – or maybe feeling duty-bound to earn the cash he’d slipped her.
Again he hesitated. Walsall sounded so unappealing, on a par with Slough and Scunthorpe. He was tempted to say Land’s End: the most romantic spot on earth, because he’d met beloved Gemma there – and romantic in its own right as the last land before America, wooed by clamorous waves. He rarely went on holiday, either then or now, but a pal had talked him into a fishing trip, and he’d caught not bass or mackerel, but a slender, red-haired beauty, who had nibbled at his bait, threshed and plunged as he hooked her; become even more tempestuous as he reeled her in and netted her; as wild as the wild waves themselves.
‘My territory’s the West Midlands,’ he said, at last, hoping the word ‘territory’ might compensate for the ‘Midlands’. And for a moment, yes – he’d exchanged the fishing-boat for a trusty steed and was galloping full-pelt across the prairie, with Gemma flung across his saddle, and the far horizon beckoning him on to adventure and escape.
‘Yes, but where’s your actual house?’
Flat, he corrected silently. What he hated about the Midlands (West or East) was its sheer distance from the sea. He had always longed to live on the coast – indeed, he and Gemma had planned to stay in Cornwall and buy a cliff-top cottage. He remembered wandering hand-in-hand with her along the wind-whipped strand, and the thunderous waves breaking on the shore had been so unrestrained, explosive, they had seemed an apt expression of his love. Later, when he’d lost that love (and the hoped-for cottage), he had walked the same unhappy beach; the strident seagulls mocking him, as they screeched out Tristram’s name.
‘So is this your full-time job?’ he asked, keen to drown memories of Tristram, and also shift attention from the location of his flat. ‘Helping run the hotel?’
‘No fear! I can’t wait to get away.’
‘And what then? Do you have plans?’
A dreamy look came over her face. ‘Oh, yes! I want to see the world. Swan off somewhere exciting; trek across the desert or maybe climb the Himalayas. Actually I don’t care where it is, so long as it gets me out of this hell-hole.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Shit! I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s good that you have ambitions.’ His own ambitions had died along with Gemma. After that doomed encounter, he’d become panicky and paralysed; no longer daring to spread his wings or take the slightest risk. He still lived close to his birthplace, as if any other part of England was dangerous, even disastrous. And although his life was spent on the road, every day was trammelled; yoked to rigid appointments and unremitting sales-targets, with no scope for breaking out.
‘You’re not eating,’ Stacey said. ‘Don’t you like it? I must admit, I’m not the world’s greatest cook.’
‘It’s delicious,’ he said, biting into the sausage, which, although burnt both ends, was still semi-raw in the middle.
‘I don’t want to rush you, Derek, but I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.’
‘Sorry,’ he repeated. He’d lost count of the times he’d said it. Although being apologetic never really paid. Brash, bold blokes were the ones who got the girls. Still, at least she had used his name, which was definitely encouraging. ‘I won’t say another word, I promise. I’ll just concentrate on eating.’
He scooped up a forkful of beans. The sauce was thin, yet unpleasantly sweet and a brilliant orange in colour, as if it had been watered down with orange squash. And, as he cut into the fried bread, a yellow pus of grease spurted on to his chin. He didn’t mind in the least. Gemma, too, had been a lousy cook. They had lived on love – and chips.
‘D’you mind if I clear off the tea-things?’
‘No, go ahead,’ he mumbled, through a mouthful of cold egg. He hadn’t even succeeded in pouring her a cup of tea, and she’d already whisked away the second cup. Why was he so backward? A slow learner. A slow eater.
At last, he put his knife and fork down, feeling slightly nauseous. The excess fat had congealed on his plate into a semisolid phlegm. Yet he’d happily drown in blubber if only he could watch her dainty hands again, picking up the teapot and the milk jug. He yearned to be the sugar-bowl, so that he, too, could feel that close caress. He suspected she was lingering in the kitchen just to get away from him. Yet, however knackered she might be, she’d be duty-bound, in the absence of the mother, to show him to his room. Could he delay her there, perhaps – say he needed extra blankets; pretend he’d forgotten his toothbrush and ask if she could find him one?
‘OK, ready?’ she asked, zooming back in, and locking the kitchen door with pointed emphasis.
‘Yes, but I’m wondering if I should move the car?’ If she followed him outdoors, he might manage to waylay her by pointing out the constellations. Except he didn’t have a clue how to distinguish Mars from Venus, let alone Orion’s Belt from the Plough. And, anyway, there were no stars – the night was too overcast.
‘Why? Where did you leave it?’
‘In that little space by the side of the house.’
‘It’s OK there. No problem.’
She seemed in such a rush, there was little chance of dallying in the moonlight. Instead, she all but shoved him into the hall.
‘Your room’s on the first floor. I’ll just go and get the key.’
As she turned her back, he gazed at her legs again. Her skirt was provocatively short – little more than a cake-frill – which meant he could admire the full expanse of milky, freckled flesh; the seductive curve of the thigh, disappearing beneath the—
‘Got your case?’
‘I left it somewhere here.’
‘Ssshh! Don’t wake Mum. She sleeps on the ground floor.’
And where do you sleep, he longed to ask, as he followed her up the stairs, riveted by the wiggle of her bottom as she took the steps two at a time. That energy, that verve – so similar to Gemma’s.
‘I’m afraid it’s not exactly the Ritz,’ she said, unlocking the door of a small, low-ceilinged room. An expert when it came to beds, he knew this one didn’t rate at all, although at least the lurid counterpane matched the frilly curtains – more or less.
As she held the door for him to enter, he was tempted to pick her up bodily and deposit her on the bed. Then he’d—
‘Shower’s in here,’ she said, opening the door of what looked like a dark cubby-hole. ‘Though the water won’t be hot at this hour. Oh, shit – the bathroom light’s gone!’
Good, he thought, now you’ll have to fetch a replacement.
‘Do you need the bathroom tonight?’ she asked, a note of desperation in her voice.
‘Well, yes, I …’
‘Thing is, I don’t know where the sodding light bulbs are kept.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, suddenly taking pity on her. ‘I can always prop the door open. The light from here will be quite enough to see.’
‘Great! That’s really decent. Thanks a mill. Goodnight.’
She couldn’t wait to get away, rattling down the stairs even faster than she’d climbed them. He crept after her surreptitiously, to see where she was going; watched her zip along the corridor and disappear into one of the ground-floor rooms. She was obviously dead-tired, desperate for some shut-eye. Young girls probably needed loads more sleep than fifty-something males, although he wouldn’t really know. His entire experience of girls – young, old or middle-aged – had been restricted to Gemma, which only went to show what a total wimp he was. Other men knew how to handle females. Kevin, his Sales Manager, had slept with strings of women, whereas he was still an almost-virgin at the age of fifty-three.
Heaving his case on to
the (patently substandard) bed, he unpacked his few possessions. The wire hangers in the wardrobe had rusted slightly and felt sticky to the touch. He only hoped they wouldn’t stain tomorrow’s clean white shirt. In the drawers he found a Bible, a dead moth and a bent hairpin. Sitting on the bed in his underpants, he began leafing through the Bible; every verse he read seeming to threaten retribution. He saw God as very similar to the ‘Sleep-Sound’ C.E.O.: remote, vindictive and tyrannical; bestowing rewards and punishments at whim. Gemma’s God was different – female and benevolent.
What had happened to her, he wondered, as he’d done umpteen times before? Had she stayed with Tristram and produced a clutch of kids; celebrated her Silver Wedding and be aiming for her Golden? Was she even at this moment knitting bootees for a grandchild? The world was built round families, yet, apart from those few months with her, he had always been alone. And his job only served to emphasize his solitude. Despite the fact he spent his days with customers, they were strangers, more or less, and, as he motored from one town to the next, the very streets seemed alien. There was no sense of being ‘at home’, and, when he did return to his flat, he would eat and sleep (and plan and dream) on his own.
Having put on his pyjamas, he cleaned his teeth in the dim and shadowy bathroom, squinting at his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t actually fat – ‘well-covered’ was more the term he’d use – and at least he still had hair, quite decent hair, in fact, though admittedly more grey than brown. Some women preferred older men, valuing their wisdom and experience. Stacey hadn’t mentioned a dad. Perhaps the old boy had passed away, which meant she’d need a father-figure, someone solid and dependable. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized her life was rather similar to his. She was trapped, as he was; tied to a sick mother and to a wreck of a hotel; her hopes and dreams frustrated. And if the mother was seriously ill, the poor girl might soon be orphaned and completely alone in the world. She’d said she was an only child (like him), so she’d have no brother to turn to, no sister to offer refuge. But he could take her in; help her find her feet. And gratitude did sometimes turn to love. OK, the age-gap was huge, but he often read in the paper about blokes in their fifties shacking up with nymphets. Granted, such men were usually rich and famous, but love must feature sometimes – genuine affection; a bond between twin souls.
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